


Complicated

by thedevilchicken



Category: Rizzoli & Isles, Women's Murder Club (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Investigations, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 09:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Jane's new job at the FBI is everything she hoped it would be. But that doesn't mean she won't jump at the chance to join a taskforce.





	Complicated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doranwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doranwen/gifts).

Since she'd moved away from Boston, her job with the FBI had been proving to Jane that there was life after the BPD after all. 

Training new agents right at the start of their careers felt like worthwhile work, or at least it did after she found her feet. It was a big change of pace, shifting from a new homicide every couple of days to teaching newbies how to act like cops instead of PhDs in Sociology or whatever the heck it was recruits came in with these days. She kinda liked it, going home every day, Skyping Maura in Europe (where she'd never meant to stay but pretty much couldn't not) and getting the time zone wrong nearly every time. She was pretty sure Maura knew she was doing it on purpose. That was fine, though; when Maura slipped into French mid-conversation, Jane was pretty sure that was on purpose, too. 

So, the job was pretty great. She really liked the hours, and sometimes her ma came to visit, sometimes Frankie came over for a game, sometimes Tommy and TJ took the spare room, and Jane had a hard time believing they hadn't smashed up at least one of the professor's real expensive-looking musical instruments back in the townhouse but apparently her nephew was a whole lot better behaved than her brother ever had been. Korsak had started teaching him to play guitar. As long as he never turned out like cousin Carlo, Jane figured having a musician in the family would be pretty great.

And life was good. Life was really good, even when her ma's ragu was in really short supply and she had to make do with takeout. Sometimes she went to yoga classes real in the morning just so she could talk about her downward-facing dog with Maura. More often, though, she went out jogging. She missed Maura when she did that, too, but she pretty much always missed Maura.

Life was great. Life was...predictable, and that was great, too. Except then Cameron - Agent Davies - came by her office at Quantico one afternoon between classes and he perched on the edge of her desk the way he did when he had something to say. The last time it'd been meeting his parents (who kinda loved her, by the way); this time, he said, "How would you feel about joining a taskforce?"

She said yes. She didn't hesitate. She didn't even think twice. She barely even let him finish. But then the files started coming in, and the files started piling up, and she maybe kinda had regrets - she'd signed up to review case files, and they were all on serial murders, some open and some closed. The only thing she could be thankful for in her brand new stack of really gruesome paperwork was some other agent had gotten assigned to Hoyt.

The first file was from Chicago. The second was from DC. The third, though, from San Francisco, made her wonder if someone was playing some kind of dumb prank; there was a photo in the file and it looked just like her, but the name said _Inspector Lindsay Boxer_. She stared at it awhile, sitting at her desk, and made herself a couple minutes late for class.

"Ma, do we have family in California you've forgotten to mention lately?" she asked on the phone when she got home that night. "Or...y'know, ever?"

"No, why do you ask?" her ma replied. "I mean, there's my second cousin Marty's daughter Lindsay, but I don't think we've seen her since she was five. You two looked so alike, Jane, everyone thought you were twins! Maybe I've still got a photo around here someplace..." 

"Thanks, ma," Jane said. "Look I've gotta go. I've got dinner plans. Love you." 

Her 'dinner plans' involved pizza on the couch and a stack of files. When she called San Francisco two days later, it wasn't because of her ma's second cousin Marty. 

"Look, I know what you're thinking," she said, when her freaky West Coast doppelganger picked up the video call. 

Inspector Boxer flapped her hands at the screen, then at her own face. "You mean the fact you look like me but talk like you're a Red Sox fan?"

"Yeah, I mean that." She leaned closer. "But look, that's not what this is about." 

"It's not?"

Jane held up the file; the name on the front said _Billy Harris_. Inspector Boxer's mouth set grimly. She held up the file next to it; the name on the front said _Charles Hoyt_. Inspector Boxer frowned. When Jane held up the next file, when she held up the crime scene photographs, the victims' stitched-up mouths were Harris and the teacups on the floor all Hoyt. Maybe Harris and Hoyt were dead and gone, exams signed off by Drs. Washburn and Isles, but Jane could see they were both remembered. 

"I think we've got a problem," she said. She held up a photo in each hand. "This is Chicago. This is DC. Are you okay to talk?"

Lindsay nodded. They settled in, if you could call what they did settling. Four hours later, Jane was on a flight out west.

She was pretty sure things were about to get complicated.


End file.
